


on key

by tossertozier (rednoseredhair)



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: I'm Too Tired, M/M, bi richie has female interests warning, but i'd be lying if i said, divided by seven, i didn't think you'd be confused, idk there's dick sucking, smatterings of ocs, this is on pointe from richie's point of view, you can read it if u havent read on pointe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-22
Updated: 2018-06-22
Packaged: 2019-05-26 23:31:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15011795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rednoseredhair/pseuds/tossertozier
Summary: "You, Richie Tozier, were good things for me, too.”“And you, Eddie Kaspbrak,” Richie thought, mouth, for once in his life, unmoving, “are more naive than I thought.”





	on key

**Author's Note:**

> i was comissioned (thanks love!!) to write 10k of the vague events of on pointe from richie's perspective. i tried to throw in mostly new content, but some pieces are retold. i'm not gonna pretend this is logical if you haven't read on pointe. hell, i'm not going to pretend this is logical if it's been a while since you've read on pointe. it's just. here, if you want it!

“I’m gonna give this,” Richie paused, staring around the barren room. “A solid four out of ten, might be a jail cell.” The walls and their beigness mocked him. He thought about what he could put on them, although mentally he knew he wasn’t going to do it.

“Hm. I was going to go with a 5.34,” his dad countered. He gestured to the floor emphatically, “the linoleum isn’t even cracked.”

Richie squinted at his father, black moustache flecked with grey, just like his hair, “I don’t think linoleum can crack.”   


“Everything cracks, son.”   


His mother set down a hefty tub that Richie knew was filled with his music stuff. He cringed as it rattled. “I’m fine, thanks.” She set down the tub. Her dyed chocolate brown hair fell out of her clip and into her eyes. She fussed with it. “No need to help, or anything.”   


“Is this really all you need, sport?” His dad looked around at the duffle that Richie threw on the nearest of the three beds, the bags from Target his dad had brought in that contained sheets he’d never wash, and the tub with his music stuff. 

He scratched his head, and tried to think while his parents were still there with a credit card that bought things. “...maybe soap? Mom, did I pack soap?”   


His mother, in her neat button up shirt, looked exasperated “Rich, how am I supposed to know if you brought soap?”   


“I was just asking.”   


“Who do you think I am? Dumbledore?”

“Why would Dumbledore know if I packed soap?”   


“I mean, like all-powerful and knowing person, I don’t know-”   


“Ah,” Bill kicked open the heavy wooden door that had already fallen closed. “It s-sounds like home already.” He slid a heavy suitcase into his room on it’s wheels, making an interesting scratching sound across the floor. He was wearing an emerald green Boston U Arts shirt like a fucking dweeb, messy hair that had obviously just been shoved under a hat, and a dopey grin. 

“Bill!” His mother enthused, like she hadn’t seen him yesterday, walking grandly across the room to hug him. His mother preferred Bill to him, Richie both knew and accepted that. He was polite-r, quiete-r. All things his mother generally prefers. He had a sneaking feeling his dad liked Bill better too, but they were out on a confirmation for that. 

Bill had been his best friend since he was thirteen. They had their ups and downs, but they were as solid as ever. They knew each other too well to not be. “You look so handsome,” she pinched his cheek, “are you excited?”   


“As ever.” He smiled at Richie. He knew his enthusiasm was not shared with Richie. Four more years of classes. Great. Fan-fucking-tastic. 

However, the dorm was brightened more with more people in it. Their last roommate they met on Facebook, looking for the most relaxed person they could literally find because while they simultaneously knew they didn’t trust themselves or their friendship to share a double by themselves, they were a lot to handle in a triple package. But Mike Hanlon was seemingly perfect to handle it. He was a chill person, with seemingly chiller parents, who left way more easily than either Bill’s or Richie’s, with a call of “be good, kid, we know you will be.” 

And of course, now that their parents were gone, they were quite clearly Hot Shit. Richie, admittedly, was already bounding around the hall, in between doors, meeting neighbors, making handshakes he would never remember. Figuring out which people he would hook up with, which he’d hook up with if he was drunk.

Because, Richie and Bill weren’t exactly losers, but believe it or not, formerly Brace-Face and Mushmouth were not Kings of popularity. They came to college with a solid pact, that this would be their year. Richie was done being the shitty kid to kind of make fun of, kind of laugh at. It already sort of stopped when he shot up several inches in his Junior year. But all that shit was behind them, now. College was a fresh slate, as far as he was concerned, one he intended on fully enjoying.

* * *

“Helloooo neighbors,” he split into his News Anchor Who is Bitter About Being Shoved on the Weather Channel While the Usual Lady is on Maternity Leave, “looks like it’s cloudy with a chance of vodka,” he slid in, sitting on the nearest desk. He grinned charmingly at the guy sitting nearest to it, on a bed.

“If you’d like to keep the lower half of your body,” he remarked calmly, not even looking up from his little planner book thing, “I’d suggest removing it from my desk.” He had neat curls and a stern face. Richie liked him. 

“Right, mate-” he said in his British accent, pushing off the desk. “Too many things to do with that, there is-” He caught Bill’s eye. Bill raised his eyebrows. The voices. He did that. Especially when he got nervous. A lot in high school. He told Bill he wanted to cut it out (and not Uncle Joey from Full House style) in college, because that shit wasn’t cool. It was just something to hide behind. “Richie Tozier,” he walked straight up to the curly headed kid, “hey.”   


“Stanley Uris,” he replied from his already neatly made bed. “Hello.” He glanced at Richie’s extended hand with disdain. Richie thought about noogying his curls, but he wasn’t trying to make enemies out of the neighbors.

“I’m B-Bill,” and that was Bill’s nervous thing, the stutter. It was difficult to understand him when they were kids. It was how they bonded, speech therapy. Richie for a heavy set of braces, Bill for a car accident when he was little. Richie’s thing was ultimately removed. Bill’s couldn’t be. 

“Mike,” Mike leaned on the door, looking effortlessly nice and cool, arms crossed. He was wearing a light yellow hoodie and a big smile. “Hey, guys.”   


“I’m Ben,” a heavier kid with a flannel shirt on commented from his desk chair, bed lofted high above his head. 

“We’re gonna g-go get food,” Bill jacked his thumb over his shoulder, “if you guys what to c-come?”

Stan looked to Ben. Ben frowned, looking over his shoulder at the other bed. It was also made, with a large bag on the center of it.

“I’m not sure if we should wait for our other roommate to get back.” Ben reasoned. “He said he’d only be a few minutes.”   


“I’m not sure if he will be, though.” Stan commented in a manner that one might even consider shady.

“Oh?” Richie, ever ready for the gossip, zero-ed in on it. He put his chin in his palm and smiled sweetly, “spill that tea.” He quoted the internet flawlessly.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stan replied blankly. Every second Richie spent around him, he loved him more. 

They compromised by meeting their mysterious third roommate half way across campus before traversing to the dining hall together. Richie was questioning why the hell he was even at the stages, before Stan informed them that he was a dancer. Richie snorted. Who majored in dance?

The answer was an angel. Quite literally, an angelic looking guy with slim fingers and a strong jaw that Richie wanted to bite into. He was distracted by him the second he saw him, as everyone else did their polite introductions, in the entry-way to the auditorium and rehearsal studios. He turned and gestured down the hall, talking about checking out where his classes would be, and Richie’s jaw nearly dropped.

The kid had, quite frankly, the most phenomenal ass Richie had ever seen on anybody. Girl. Boy. Blowfish. He was trying not to stare at it, but Jesus fucking  _ Christ _ , how could you not? Even Bill, who was … mostly straight, glimpsed down at it. Richie saw it, that douchebag.

When Richie came out to him it was less optional and more mandatory because he was mid hook-up with a guy in Richie’s car. In Richie’s defense, Bill was supposed to stay inside for another half hour. It led to an awkward “gay?” “both, I think.” “gotcha.” Conversation that began and ended there. 

Richie, himself, had a long, in depth conversation with himself about it. Which was, in retrospect, dumb, because it really narrowed itself down to “gay?” “both, I think.” “gotcha.” 

“Richie, like ichie, with an R.” He told the kid, leaning up against the wall with what he hoped was a decently charming smile. “Or Richard,” he winked, “if you prefer.” He was glad he was dissuaded from wearing his button up covered in flamingos. His mother won that round.   


The boy seemed neither charmed nor convinced, and Richie didn’t even know of what, “Eddie Kaspbrak.” He replied, voice sharp and clear. “Hi.”   


_ Oh, Eddie Kaspbrak _ , Richie thought to himself,  _ you’re gonna be a real fucking problem for me. _

* * *

Eddie Kaspbrak was a real fucking problem and not the fun kind. More the, Calls-the-RA-For-No-Goddamned-Reason kind of problem. The exact opposite of the problem Richie wants when literally all he wants to do after his mind-numbingly boring lecture hall classes is just play some music for his friends. He had become more than well-acquainted with Randy their RA, who, for the record, didn’t seem to appreciate the complaints or the paperwork they required either.

If Richie hadn’t seen the kid the first day, he wouldn’t believe him to be anything other than an urban legend made up to get people to quiet down. He, and his legs, were nowhere to be seen during Decent People Hours, and during Fun People Hours, he was nothing more than a nuisance. Richie tried to invite him over to hang out, so maybe he’d be less of a goddamned miserable fun-sucker, and Eddie had acted like Richie killed his grandmother with a shoelace and a coffee grinder in front of him. 

So it stayed a problem with a capital P because the two options for fixing it was not play music or have fun of any kind, or Eddie being less of a parasite of joy. Both were equally implausible to Richie. 

* * *

Camren was draped over his shoulder, heavy and giggling. He felt gross already from eating fast food less than ten minutes ago, and he didn’t even know how that was possible. He wasn’t sure if he was even in the mood to hook up with her anymore, and it was  _ Camren _ . She was a five foot seven Dominican dream, with pink at the ends of her hair and a body that Richie would consider labeling his type if he ever felt like having one. They left Bev’s car, Richie reaching up to smack a kiss on her cheek, now that they weren’t graced with Bill’s presence. It doesn’t happen every time he was with Bev, but he sometimes wonders if there ever might have been a thing between them if Captain Denbrough didn’t swoop in, the way he always did, and practically drape a neon pink flag over her shoulders that said  _ DIBS _ in sparkling letters. Richie and Bev had never happened. But the thought sometimes haunted him. But. Dibs.

The climb to Richie’s floor was merciless with a high Camren and a synth, and they gave up halfway there to laugh and lean against the wall. High enough that he had basically ruled out hooking up with her for the night. It wouldn’t even be fun, at that point. Too much paranoia.

But when the door opened, what a sight was in front of him. Eddie Kaspbrak, the hall’s elusive ghost with eardrums the size of dinner plates, apparently, in neon green shorts. The one who decided to simultaneously be fucking hot and the most annoying thing on the planet. The one who he genuinely tried to befriend, because the noise complaints could get him written up if he wasn’t careful, but Kaspbrak wouldn’t come closer than far enough to miss him with a dart. He was standing next to, none other than, Bill. Of course it was Bill. Richie couldn’t even be surprised it was Bill. It would always be Bill. 

“Hey, Rich-” Bill acted like he didn’t even notice the elephant in spandex, “how was your day?”   


“This pigeon,” Richie jabbed his thumb to point at himself, “got ran over and dumped in the garbage, but he’s not giving up!” The room tittered. They were joined by Rachel, the girl Bill had been trying to hook up with since moping about Bev was not declared a hobby by the college’s club committee, a kid he’d met a few times named John. Camren was already in his bed. Mike, Julia. Stan. No one out of the ordinary, except...

“Going to bed?” Bill asked Eddie in his annoying gentle, I’m a Teddy Bear voice, grabbing his ankle. Richie was ready to barbecue him.

“Course he is,” he couldn’t help his gruff reply. “He stood up the moment I walked in the door.” He rooted through his bag, already ready to blast music and not think about anything, especially not Bill. “Yes, I saw that.” He told the obviously uncomfortable guy, and his reddening face. “Hi, lovebug.” He told him cutely, just because he knew his face would continue in that fascinating shade of fuschia. Richie enjoyed it immensely, especially the buzzing, high part of his brain. And a small part of him was just trying to see if he could get the smallest, slightest smile out of Eddie. It was majorly ineffective! And when Eddie started yelling at him, he had had it up to his  _ ears _ with that kid, he yelled back. Bill called him off, and he listened, but fuck, he could fight him.

Eddie stormed out of his dorm, and the entire thing passed in a whirlwind, Richie barely even knew what he said. He was getting disapproving looks from his friends, he just knew it. He frowned at them. “I’m not proud of it, either.” He replied crossly.

“We didn’t say anything,” Stan replied. 

* * *

“I fucking hate this class,” Richie announced to the room et large. He couldn’t even remember what the class discussion was about to write this fucking essay on. He was too busy thinking of the composition he was working on for his friend Dale’s band.

Piano came naturally to him as a kid. It just made sense, after some simple muscle memory. It was music he liked. Music was a constant challenge, always dynamic, always interesting, always changing. He hated the practices that his mother attended, watching him like a hawk. They were boring. He hated English because it was fucking boring. He could throw words together in any assortment and they’d still just be words. And the class “dialogues” they kept having made him want to die. 

“Aren’t you taking English with Donovan?” Bev asked, “I heard she’s nice.”   


“She’s fine, it’s just the fucking class, man.” Richie complained, leaning back on his bed with a sigh. “It’s boring as shit.”   


“It’s probably not boring,” Bill countered with a snort. “You’re probably not paying any attention.” Because Bill was defensive over English and the other boring bullshit Bill liked. 

“I’m paying attention,” Richie lied in his retort. Bill laughed. “Whatever, fuck you, man, it’s just boring.” He sat up, scanning their room. Camren was missing from her usual crowd, her wheedy friend Zach sitting with Bev on the floor as they looked over notes from a class. Luca, a thin pale girl with dark hair, sat on his other side, looking over her phone with disinterest. 

“What’s the paper on, Rich?” Bev asked, lovely Bev, shifting her body closer across the room.

“It’s whatever,” he threw it to the side because he couldn’t look at it anymore without vomiting. None of the kids in his class knew jack shit about AI so why were they discussing it’s morality? Fucking dumb. “Fuck it, I’ll do it later.” He slid across the room, pulling his laptop out of his bag to connect to his speaker. “Anyone got a music preference tonight?” He asked the room, scanning around.

Luca looked up with interest, then frowned with consideration and shrugged. “I generally like what you pick out.” She told him with a smile. He liked her, even with her purple lipstick. 

“Please put on something, though,” Zach replied. “This shit does fry your brain, man.”   


“It’s fine,” Bev told him stubbornly, flipping to the next page. “If you look here you’ll see that-” Richie drowned her out, not so Zach couldn’t hear her, but so Richie didn’t have to listen to it. Even just thinking about other people’s homework was going to melt his brain a little bit. He stared at the ceiling as the list started to play. It wasn’t like he wanted to be doing badly. He just sucked at school. He wasn’t designed for it, whatever. He just had to manage a few C’s, show a degree to his dad, and get the fuck out of there. 

The playlist came on, and eventually the buzzing, whirling thoughts flying around his head were a little bit relaxed. He got his vape out of his bag, taking a few slow drags. They burned at his throat just a little bit, leaving an artificial fruity taste in his mouth. He didn’t love it, but they softened the world, softened him a little bit. Just thinking of his homework made him want to twitch, so instead he chatted with Luca about various memes circulating the internet. 

And then it came crashing down with a thundering knock on their door.

Richie groaned, “if that’s Kaspbrak, I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”   


“You know it will be Eddie,” Bill replied gruffly, standing.

“And you’ve already lost your mind,” Bev added cheerfully. Richie flicked some loose lint at her. She giggled. He couldn’t help his smile. He even sat up and turned down his speaker a couple of notches, hoping maybe that was soothe the neurotic dancer next door from even making demands now. But Bill was opening their door, and there was certainly a person behind it. 

“Hey, Eddie-” Bill greeted before he even fully opened the door, and Richie was already laughing.

“Is that my sweetheart?” He called at Bill’s shoulder, practically daring Eddie to do something about it. “Sweetie-Pie, sometimes I think you just want to see me.” Eddie, with a surprising amount of pluck, ducked under Bill’s shoulder and stormed into the room. He wasn’t even still wearing his little dance outfit, so it wasn’t even a decent show.

“Tozier,” he snarked, crossing his arms. “Turn down your music, it’s so fucking loud.”   


“I already turned it down,” Richie replied sharply. “Maybe it’s quieter from where I am- why don’t you come and-” 

He hadn’t touched him, or remotely tried to, and Eddie jumped back like he was burned. Richie wondered if maybe he was still in the closet or something. He couldn’t laugh at that, but he held back a mighty snicker. 

“I don’t want to come anywhere with you.”   


Luca snorted across the room. Richie caught the double entendre, too. He caught Eddie’s eyes scanning down his legs.

“Well,” Richie replied smugly, “I’d beg to differ, but that’s all speculation, I suppose.” He smirked up at him, crossing his arms. Eddie was pink, floundering for a comeback. 

“Why can’t you just play the music quieter?” Eddie snarled, choosing not to respond to that accusation at all.  _ Because then I can hear myself think _ , Richie almost replied out-loud, but honesty got him very few places in life. “I’m trying to sleep.” 

“Interesting tactic you’ve got here,” Richie frowned with consideration, waving a hand over Eddie’s general form in front of him, “this whole sleeping-while-standing thing.” Eddie only looked more pissed, face all scrunched up. “Let me know how it works out for you.” 

“You fucking  _ asshole _ ,” he ranted, “I don’t know how to communicate to you that I just-”

“H-h-hey,” Bill interrupted, with a soothing hand on Eddie’s shoulder. He manually turned down Richie’s speaker. Richie wanted to just flip him off, but instead shut his eyes tightly and willed the new headache away. He had so many more things to say, like where Eddie might be able to buy a sense of humor if he couldn’t organically grow one. Where he could shove his sleep schedule. But Bill smoothed things over, and before he knew it, he heard a pointed, “thanks, Bill.”   


“Sure, Eddie.”    


And the door slammed behind him. 

* * *

The real kicker, the absolute  _ chuck _ of it all, was Richie heard the buzzer. He had stayed up until five am trying to write a paper, told himself he was only going to lay down for an hour because words weren’t making sense anymore, finish the paper, take his tests, and everything was going to be okay. He heard the buzzer. He knows he did. But he, in his sleep-deprived, addled mind, rolled over, and went back to sleep. Bill and Mike slept through it too, and eventually, his little phone gave up with it’s incessant ringing.

And he slept, he slept longer than an hour. He slept for six more hours, through two tests and one blackboard deadline. 

And six hours was enough to ruin his life for an entire semester. 

* * *

The first day back at college was already so fucking frustrating, getting dragged out to the studios on the other side of the campus way too early in the morning. He was so irritated and tired, especially with his mouthy neighbor. He flew back across campus, ready to skip his late afternoon class. Whatever, it was syllabus week, anyway. He just wanted to take a nap, or something. He flung the door open to his dorm, and found it already occupied.

“Your roommate is fucking annoying,” he told Stan crossly, all but throwing his bag on to his bed. That little fuck. The last time he truly saw him he scaled a build for him to get him some damn key. High off his ass? Sure. Absolutely. No doubt about it. But still, a building was a fucking building. And he had the nerve to be that fucking irritating?? That fucking presumptuous?? That fucking... _himself!?_? _Fuck_. 

“Whoa, whoa whoa-” Mike paused him in his anger flying out, grabbing his black book bag and setting it up right on his bed. “Don’t hurt the bag, it didn’t do anything wrong.”   


“So I take it your first day as Pianist Extraordinaire didn’t work out?” Stan clicked his tongue tightly. Richie’s annoyance grew. He could take Stan’s condescension almost any day, almost any day it was pretty funny. But he was already mad. “Gee. Wonder if it was a bad idea to begin with,” he hummed.

“Fucking funny, Staniel.” Richie laid down in Mike’s bed because his was covered in stuff. Mike didn’t look mad, in face, he looked tense at the conversation. “Write a comedy book, no one will buy it.” 

Stan looked up at him, squinting at him. “I’m just saying that you shou-”

“I’m just saying,” Richie interrupted coarsely, “that you’re being fucking annoying.” 

“Just like my roommate, huh?” Stan stood curtly, smoothing out his pants. Evidently having enough Tozier for the day. What the fuck ever, Richie was more than used to it. “I’ll see you guys later.”  

Mike stood still for a few moments after Stan’s, all things considered, calm exit. Eventually, after a few solid beats of nothing but Richie breathing, the bed sank by Richie’s head. 

“Mike,” he breathed honestly, shutting his eyes. He didn’t know why it’d be easier to voice what he was thinking if he didn’t have to look at anyone while he did it. “I don’t know if I want to be here anymore.” And he knew Mike would know what he meant. Not in the room with Mike, but at their school. He didn’t know sincerely if that’s was what he wanted at all anymore.

This deal sucked. He realized he fucked up. He realized he might as well tattoo Fuck Up across his forehead for as often as he managed to fuck up as he did. He realized he deserved to get kicked out of school, that his piano abilities alone were keeping him enrolled. He was just beginning to think that maybe it would have been better for everyone if he was just hurled out of the school on his ass. Whatever, he could play in those bad singing restaurants and sleep in a room with six people in it. Anything seemed better to him than having to go back to class.

“Just finish the semester, Rich.” Mike patted his shoulder sincerely, with compassion. Richie loved Mike, he really did. “They’ve already got your money.”   
Which, it was his Dad’s money, but yeah. Yeah they did. 

* * *

Richie had never seen a person who moved quite like Eddie. He was so strong, power pinned into a slight body, graceful when dancing and somehow clumsy when he wasn’t. Richie would be lying if he said he wasn’t somewhat mesmerized by the curve of his hip, the continuing defined line in his bicep.

Point blank, he wanted to have sex with him real badly.

Which, chalk it up to Eddie to be annoying, because he was pretty sure that was at least sort of mutual, and Eddie was doing an excellent job of pretending it wasn’t. It was like the guy was allergic to fun… or happiness, or something. Richie wasn’t sure. 

He was also just so fucking fun to pick on, starting fights with little zings, but leaving wide open spaces for Richie to swoop in. 

That day, he was wearing his usual black dance pants or whatever they were called, but they most definitely had a little extra sheen in them. Richie enjoyed watching him during warm ups with the petite girl he always danced with. He stretched, muscles limber and body lean and fuck if Richie weren’t ready to salivate. Of course, the room was genuinely filled with beautiful bodies, beautiful people. Some of them, specifically a girl named Sophie who was sitting, stretching by the bench and telling him about his weekend, fully available to him. That ceased to be at all interesting the previous semester. Yadda yadda, that saying, kids want what they can’t have.

“If you’re going to stare,” Eddie began tartly, acknowledging him with an insult, as he was one to do. God forbid he just acknowledge Richie any other way, “might I suggest investing in sunglasses?” 

“And miss that cute pink on your cheeks?” Richie asked, hand in his palm. “I’ll pass.”

“That’ll make one thing you’ve passed in your college experience,” Eddie retorted. “Congratulations.”   
And Eddie always managed to make his body come with the price of his intolerable personality. If it hadn’t been for the dig on Richie’s intelligence, again, he would have left him alone.

“Hey, Eds-” he grinned, tilted his head a little. “Are your pants a mirror?”   


“Let me guess:” Eddie interrupted sharply, tossing his slightly-too-long and quite clearly bothering him hair out of his eyes, “because you can see you rself in them?”   


Richie felt smarmy with his smile, so glad that Eddie was such a good mouse when it came to his little traps. Loved him some cheese. “I was gonna say because they were shiny and I could stare at them all fucking day, but your answer works, too,” he ran his tongue over his teeth, delighting in Eddie’s little flush. 

“No, I’m sorry-” Eddie back-pedalded, standing his ground, slim waist outlined by the hand on his hip, “if they were a mirror and you had looked in it, they’d most definitely be broken by now. Shattered,” he waved around a fantastical hand. “Little tiny pieces.”   


“But wouldn’t that be better for everyone?” Richie asked sincerely. “Frankly, it’s a risk I’m willing to take.”   


Eddie seemingly had run out of comebacks, and goddamnit if this weren’t Richie’s favorite part. The loud declaration of hate with misty want in the back of his eyes was so fucking sweet every time. “Just in case you’ve forgotten,” Eddie practically hummed, “you are the worst person alive.”   


“Might be ever, honestly,” Richie countered. Eddie turned on his heel, and Richie was a little sad that he was leaving, but damn could he watch him go. 

“RICHARD TOZIER DESOLATE AS POLL SHOWS THAT HE’S DOWN TWO POINTS IN THE RACE AGAINST HITLER.” He called after him. He flipped him off over his shoulder. Sophie giggled and smacked his leg.

“Richie,” she laughed, “oh my god,  _ stop _ .”

And Richie still didn’t know why it was only appealing when Eddie told him to stop, but it was. 

* * *

Richie, not for nothing, was a decent strategist. He had played Uno many, multiple times, under all sorts of various influences. Good at winning games. Good at getting people in bed with him. Using both skills at the moment.

Eddie was sitting next to him, wearing a big sweatshirt and a face tired enough that said that he’d be calling it a night any moment. Richie didn’t know why, but he sort of wanted to prolong that a little bit. He didn’t know when he started hanging out with them, but he was sharp and funny and had decent timing. “Hey,” he nudged Eddie. He fiddled with his bag from the J-W from earlier that day, sitting on the floor of Stan’s dorm. He didn’t know how they kept it so clean. It’s not like they didn’t try next door. Things just ended up all of the floor, somehow. “I bet you this muffin,” he gestured to the one wrapped up in his hand, “that I beat you next round.” 

Eddie looked wary. Richie figured he had just about been ready to kick them out. He was just trying to prolong that from happening. Not hang out with Eddie more, obvously. Or… maybe not. There was no point in lying in his own inner monologue, was there? 

“What do you get if you win?” He asked cautiously. “Not that that will happen, of course.”   


“Then why are you worried about it?” Richie asked lecherously, leaning in.

“Because everyone knows you don’t make deals with the devil without a contract.” He replied tartly. 

“I would think you just wouldn’t make a deal with the devil at all.”

“You would think that, wouldn’t you?” 

Richie  _ might  _ like having him around, actually. 

It’d just be better if he was on his knees.

* * *

“God,” Richie hummed, still staring at the same Instagram photo. “He’s such an annoying little fuck, isn’t he?” He examined Eddie’s stone cold little stare in the photo, nearly a pout, with his broken ballet shoes or whatever they were.

“Mm-hmm,” Mike replied, not really looking up from his computer with the new season of Daredevil playing on it, wrapped in his comforter. “Sure.”

“Like. Love the pointed foot,” he tried to point out to Mike who was not paying attention and Richie knew this, “he always has to be so goddamned extra.” 

“Yeah, I get you.”

“Oh my god,” Richie said emphatically, swiping down to the next picture. It just had a picture of a too-expensive juice. “Could he be any gay-er?” He asked Mike, even though he knew Mike was neither listening nor really cared. “The other day, it was actually kind of funny, he literally went on this tirade about girls in his class not wearing the same shade of dance tight or whatever to class so they didn’t look cohesive. He called some girl in black tights sloppy. He’s such a yappy little fucker,” he smiled fondly at the memory. They had been sitting working on an a presentation in the common room. Eddie was wearing ridiculous tube socks and a big sweater, flaunting those legs for everyone to see. He didn’t even seem like he minded when Richie began to absentmindedly run his hands up them, coarse hair under his fingertips, defined muscle evident.

But none of that fucking mattered anymore because Eddie freaked out at him over nothing, because he was the worst. And even worst, he knew Eddie was weird and completely irrational, and yet he couldn’t stop analyzing every interaction they had over the last three weeks. Normally, it was easier for him to pin-point where he fucked up. He didn’t even know what he did wrong. 

And it sucked.

“Fffff-” he snorted at another photo on Eddie’s Instagram timeline. It was an old photo, of him in a less-than-friendly pose with girl in ballet attire. He looked like he was maybe 14. “Do you think he was still in the closet, because-” Mike looked up at him, reached across the small gap in between their beds, and plucked Richie’s phone out of his hand. 

“No more Eddie Instagram,” he told him solemnly, locking it and setting it on his bed. 

“Hey, I wasn’t-”   


“Don’t make me take the whole phone away.” 

“...fine.” 

* * *

“He’s so damn sensitive,” Richie told Bill again because he had told him before but he hadn’t felt emotionally satisfied with his response.

“Mhmm.”

“I didn’t fucking do anything, he’s just a whiny little bitch. But at least he’s not complaining about the music.”

“Well if you genuinely didn’t do anything,” Bill reasoned, looking up from his video game. “Have you tried to talking to him?”

“Why would I talk to him?”

“To smooth things over?”

“...why?”

“...so you guys can hang out again?”

“Why the hell would I wanna hang out with that bossy little legume?”

Bill just stared at him instead of responding. After a long look, he just squinted, and tilted his head.

“What?” Richie asked.

“I’m just trying to figure out exactly why you are the way that you are.”

* * *

“Oh my god,” Richie announced emphatically to the entire room, door shut behind him. His mind whirled with the events of the last two days. They kissed, and then they kissed again, just now in a hallway and Eddie just fucking let himself want him for the first time since they had met and it left him with this glowing fuzzy, happy feeling. “I told y’all he wanted it.” He almost giggled. The world was still hazy, and gentle, hitting him in slow bursts from the high with Bev. “Fuck…  _ yes _ .”

“No one is surprised,” Bev replied from her seat on Bill’s bed. 

“Did it happen?” Bill sat up with interest, eyes wide.

“Dude…  _ yeah _ .”

“Fucking  _ finally _ .” Bill replied, sharing a look with Mike. “Please stop complaining about Eddie, now.”   


“I wasn’t complainin-”   


“Dude, I won’t even have this argument with you.”

It hit High Richie  all at once. That there was an awake Eddie Kaspbrak on his floor, that wanted him, and he was staring at the five of them. He turned and went for the door handle quickly, still ready to fucking giggle everywhere.

“Where are you going, Rich?”   


“I don’t want to be talking to you guys!” He replied logically, because he wanted to be talking with Eddie.

Wait, where was Eddie?   


Bathroom, right. 

Okay, bathroom had no Eddie- so Richie was lost, or was this the right bathroom? What did their bathroom look like? He wasn’t sure if he remembered these specific soap dispensers that kind of looked like race cars in that they didn’t at all and Richie was very high. 

The door opened, and there he was. Eddie was shirtless, too, deliciously tempting. He still looked flushed and pleased and ripe for picking like an apple close to the edge of the tree. It was a split second before he opened his mouth with that annoying voice of his to complain, where he saw it. That he was happy to see him, eyes lighting up and mouth opening with a joyous little gasp. Richie could live in that second and a half on a continuous loop for twelve years. 

“Richie,” he warned, and even his faux-stern expression couldn’t fool Richie from that smile before it.

“I’m sorry,” he just wanted, in fact would argue he needed, his hands on Eddie’s body. It was muscular and lean all at once, budding muscles emerging from those hard-ass dance rehearsals. He reached out for him as he slid by, nearly giggling to himself. “I wasn’t done talking.” He smiled, knowing it would pale in comparison to Eddie’s 1.5 second smile. He couldn’t let anyone else get to that mouth first. If at all.

* * *

Richie liked nick-names. When he was a kid, before he met Bill, he constantly felt like a nuisance. Like he was barely tolerated. Probably because he was. He felt like a cicada, screaming on the outskirts of a summer day, waiting to be noticed and appreciated. Fully noticed. Fully acknowledged. Never really wanted.

Nicknames were an instant in to the pack. In on the joke, in on the team. When they got older, taller, more popular, girls used to tell him how rude it was that he’d sometimes fall back on calling Bill Mushmouth. They wouldn’t get it, wouldn’t understand how they’d shriek with laughter and Bill would call him Brace-Face, Four-Eyes, Pizza-Skin, whatever it was and it didn’t fucking matter because it was them and they belonged. They were never on the outskirts of each other. Never not in on the joke.    


Richie didn’t really know why, but Eddie just  _ was  _ a peanut. 

“I don’t want to do jack-shit tonight,” Eddie groaned that day, laying down dramatically across his dorm bed. “I just want to, like. Watch Netflix. Or whatever it is the teens do.”   


“You alright?” Mike asked compassionately, looking up from his bowl of Ramen and extensive notes. 

“My body just hurts,” he sighed, digging his thumbs into his calves. They always seemed to be sore after his partner class where he had to hoist that girl around all the time. Richie placed his hands over Eddies, digging his, yes, very strong, fingers into the knot in the muscle.

“I got it, peanut.” He muttered. Eddie sighed with content, moving so Richie could put his legs over his lap. Richie leaned down and planted a kiss smack on his knee cap. Eddie’s legs fell open just a bit. 

The thing that drove him the most crazy about Eddie was he didn’t even know when he was being a tease. Richie wanted nothing more than to kiss up his thighs. Or, maybe, Mike to leave the room. He loved Mike, just not for that particular moment.

Richie couldn’t pin-point exactly why or why not Eddie was a peanut. He could make up some bull-shit philospical reason about being easy to crack and sweet when buttered up, but the truth was: Eddie just was a Peanut. He was. 

“Y’all know that chickens like to sunbathe?” Mike commented quietly from his bed. 

“I thought you were studying history,” Richie replied incredulously, squinting at Mike.

“Nah, I know that shit. These are my chicken sheets.”   


“You’re taking a class on chickens?” Eddie asked, nudging Richie a bit more with his leg. Richie obliged, digging in deeper. Eddie softly moaned. Richie told his dick No We’re Not Doing That.

“No, this is just for fun.”   


“How’d they figure that out?” Eddie asked contemplatively. He stared up at the ceiling, eyebrows drawn in a little bit. “This is my rooster, Gary.” He told himself amusedly, “he likes long walks on the beach and days in the sun.”   


“Gary sounds like my kind of man, honestly.” Mike replied seriously, biting his lip and jotting something down on his papers. “For real though, how did they figure that out? Did they follow the chickens around to see where the squad was hanging out?”   


“A squad full of chickens literally sounds like my ideal squad.” Richie added, smirking at his own joke. He let his hands drift higher on Eddie’s legs, going for just above his knee. “Covered in feathers, laying eggs-”   


“Hanging out in the sun, apparently, nothing to fucking do, because you’re a chicken-” Eddie rolled his shoulders back, sounding more and more enticed by the idea. Richie snorted. He was beginning to think he could actually be friends with Eddie. But the skin under his hands was less hairy than the skin of his calves, and he still wanted Mike to go be the King of Chickens somewhere fucking else. 

* * *

“What are you doing, man?” Bill asked one afternoon, shoving into their dorm.

“Hello, my oldest friend Bill,” Richie replied monotonously. “I’m glad to see you too. I’m great, thanks for asking.” He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, keyboard in his lap. Bill threw a bag of McDonalds at him.

“S-shut the fuck up, Rich. What are you practicing?” 

Richie wasn’t not practicing Eddie’s solo music, thinking of him, so frustrated in their last rehearsal. His face was scrunched up with something crossed in between confusion and pain the entire time. Richie thought he would have hated watching it if it were anyone, let alone… Eddie. His… thing. 

He thought maybe with a few fancy trills, a couple’a’ extra chords, he might get into it easier. Maybe get out of his own head a little bit. But he wasn’t gonna tell Bill that. 

“The song I’m gonna play at your funeral.” He told hims seriously. “I’m thinking an acoustic of the Duck Tales theme song, thoughts?” He asked cutely, sliding a hand under his chin.

“Might solve a mystery~” Bill sang, horrendously off key to himself, “or re-write hiiistorryyy~”   
“DUCK TALES~” they sang loudly together, already in unison and nowhere near harmony, or melody, or anything, because neither of them could sing, but damn if they didn’t have heart. “WOO-OOOH.” Richie banged out the chords he could remember. “IT’S A DUCK-” their door opened at that exact moment. Stan was standing there blinking.

“Nope,” he shut the door, just barely catching his own “not today,” before it closed. 

* * *

“You don’t have to,” was not something he’d ever thought he’d say with someone’s hand on his dick, but he surprised himself more every day. He watched Eddie contemplate it, rubbing cautiously through his gym shorts. “Seriously,” he kissed Eddie’s temple. And then his cheek, for good measure.

“You don’t.”

“You’ve done me,” Eddie replied with a click of his tongue. He had well and truly backed Richie into a corner with that, because he had done Eddie, but sucking Eddie’s dick and sucking Richie’s was two different ball games. 

He bit his lip, fingertips dancing on the edge of Richie’s gym shorts. Richie looked down at him, and realized Eddie wanted to try - he just wasn’t going to say that. Richie was lying flat on his back, Eddie hovering over him on his hands and knees.

“I’ll help you,” he told him, lifting his hips to lower his shorts. His cock, half hard, flopped back against his stomach. It was reddening, flat on his body. Eddie looked nervous to even touch it. RIchie picked up his dick with his dry-ass hand, stroking down it once, and then twice - less so enjoying the chafe and moreso watching Eddie’s considerate look. 

Eddie reached out with a nervous hand, taking Richie’s dick from him. He jerked down it slowly as he had done before. The first time Richie had had a secondary hand job in a long ass time. The last time a girl had tried, he just stopped her and told her “I can do that better than you can.” Which, in retrospect, was harsh, because he’d never say that to Eddie.

Not with him so curiously, so tentatively, watching his own hand on Richie’s dick. Richie badly wanted to pour some lube on to it, but he didn’t want to shoot his own shot of getting his dick in Eddie’s mouth in the foot. 

Eddie, tentatively, reached out with his tongue, avoiding looking up at Richie at all, flattening his tongue against the side. Richie shivered, he moved so slowly, so tantalizingly, up towards the tip.

“Ugh,” Eddie smacked his lips. “That’s a weird flavor.” He scrunched his nose up. “Eugh.” 

“Chlorine?”   


Eddie’s eyes widened. “YES. That’s it. Salt...man, definitely soap, thank you, and fucking chlorine, do you swim?”   


“Nah, I’ve just heard that before.”   


“Weird,” Eddie rambled, hand quickening on his dick, not at all helped by the little bit of spit that was rubbed into his skin in a second. “Wonder how you got a fish dick. Not that it looks like a fish. Or I don’t know, not a fish I’ve seen. There are some real weird ones way down deep in the ocean-” 

Richie ran his fingers through his hair in a way he hoped was soothing, as Eddie was obviously nervous. “It doesn’t smell like fish,” he back-stepped. “It’s nice. I’m-”   


“Just kiss the head,” Richie told him instead of responding to this entire fish thing and throwing them way off course. He, as gently as possible, pressed Eddie's head closer. Eddie pressed a closed mouth kiss to it, like he’d kiss a great aunt or something. Richie grabbed his chin, smoothing a thumb over his mouth. Eddie let his lips falls open, just caressing the edge of this thumb. His tongue flicked against the edge of his thumb. 

Eddie, after gentle coaxing and caressing, tried it. 

He overwrapped his teeth with his lips, looking somewhat bizarre, but his tongue was lapping stainst the bottom of his dick and Richie tried to keep from fucking into his mouth, like some sort of virgin. Eddie instantly tried to take too much, gagging, a wad of spit flying out and landing with a splat on the sheets. He winced, and stared at it, like it had flew out of his body of his entire volition.

“No one warns you about the spit,” he told him sympathetically.

“There’s so much of it,” Eddie replied, looking aghast at it.

“There is.”   


“Where does it even come from?”   


“Who knows.”

And the thing was, Eddie wasn’t good at it. Richie was finally at the stage where he could tell good head from bad, and this wasn’t good. Eddie was stroking it, kissing the head, clumsily licking up and down the sides, maybe getting half way down. But Eddie wanted to be good. He wanted so badly to take more, push harder. To please Richie.

And that was the most dizzily hot thing, his need to please, that Richie had  _ literally  _ ever seen. 

* * *

Richie found it astonishing, but he hated watching Eddie’s solo rehearsal. It was close to an hour of watching Eddie leap around in that outfit Richie loved so much, but it was also watching Eddie get his confidence beat down a little more with every passing rehearsal. It made him uncomfortable, made him want to interfere, which would be completely moronic “ _ excuse me, Mr. Trained Ballet Man,” “...yes?” “Stop telling him he’s wrong. I’ve decided you’re wrong. My basis for this is I like him.” _

Yeah.

But it made him fidget, have a difficult time focusing on the piece in front of him. Richie couldn’t wait for it to end every week, so he and Eddie could go back to the dorm and Richie could pet his head and hopefully Eddie would forget about the whole thing pretty quickly. Richie wasn’t naive enough to think that was actually how it went down most of the time, but he could pretend it was. At least Eddie’s face would decompress, scrunch up in the less-pained way and more in the I’m-Amused-and-Trying-Not-to-Be way.

“Hey,” he cornered him in the dressing room, sneakers already on his feet. He boxed him into the lockers with his hands on either side, craning his neck down to press a kiss into Eddie’s neck. “You were great.”   


“No, I wasn’t.” Eddie replied tartly. “But thank you,” he leaned back, tilting his head back so it landed on Richie’s chest. He looked up at him. 

“How’s the inside of my nose look?”   


“Almost as gross as the rest of you.” He replied with a sleepy, muted smile. No bite at all. Richie grinned down at him, and dropped a kiss on to his forehead. “How was your math test today?”

“Honestly not bad.” Richie wrapped his arms around Eddie instinctively. He wasn’t really sure who was holding up who. “And I finished that mix for Luca’s thing. So I’m off for the night.” 

“Oh, you did that response journal thing?”   


“Yeah, I finished it before dinner.”   


“Cool,” Eddie yawned, turning his cheek onto Richie’s chest. Richie smiled at the crown of his head, the little spiral of hair. He dropped a kiss into the  center of it. “Ack, sorry.”   


“Nah, it’s fine.” He squeezed him a bit before letting go, shoving his hands back into his pockets. “I’m almost there too, to be honest.”   


“Yeah?” Eddie asked, amused. He picked up his dance bag and set it on his shoulder. He had a cute inquisitive face on. “Richie? Tired at the times normal people sleep?”   


“Yeah, it’s like there’s this little goblin that lives next door that keeps getting me up early.”

“Hey, if you want to eat breakfast with me, I’m just saying it happens at certain times-”   


“I’m kidding, peanut.  _ Yowza _ .” He ran his fingers through some of the sweaty hair in front of him while Eddie rolled his eyes. He yanked on it at the root, just a little bit. “Come on, let’s go home before it snows again.” 

* * *

**camren 12:19 p.m.  
** **hey fuck head  
** **where ya been?** **  
**

**richie 12:22 p.m.  
** **lmao sorry  
** **i didn’t mean to be a piece of shit  
** **i just**

He regretted sending, even replying so quickly. The truth was, he wasn’t anywhere out of the ordinary, he was just hanging out a lot with Eddie. He didn’t really have a response for Camren’s question. It had been a little while since he thought of her, and not in a cruel way. But he wasn’t really hooking up with anyone on the fly at the moment, all of his usual hook-ups off the table in his arrangement with Eddie. And he really only hooked up with a stranger when Eddie left him so sexually frustrated he didn’t know what else to do with himself.

**richie 12:26 p.m.  
** **busy  
** **fuck college**

**camren 12:53 p.m.  
** **it’s nbd  
** **come to the benefit on thursday  
** **it’s gonna be fun**

He thought about going. A shit ton of people he knew were going. But he highly doubted Eddie would want to go to a frat house on a Thursday in the slightest, and they normally hung out on Thursday nights. They both had to be up early for recital practice anyway. And he could get high, maybe drunk, with a bunch of people in a cramped dorm room and talk about nothing, but it was honestly more appealing to him to just lay down with Eddie for a few hours. Maybe watch Netflix. Have a little sex. Eddie was invited to the party too, but in some selfish piece of him, he didn’t really feel like sharing Eddie for that night. But he didn’t want to tell Camren that.

**richie 1:09 p.m.  
** **lmao maybe**

* * *

 

“Do you think,” Eddie whispered to him. It was dark, Bill having returned to his bed already. Eddie was running his fingers through the hair on Richie’s chest, the two cramped together in his bed. Richie was thick in the post-sex haze, where everything was glazed with content and somewhat sticky. Good. “that butterflies know they glowed up?”   
Richie nearly put a crick in his neck to kiss Eddie’s nose, that question was so fucking cute. Eddie huffed out a laugh in response, dropping his face into Richie’s chest. Richie pressed his face in his hair, he smelled sweaty, like spicy soap and masculine, body heavy on top of Richie’s. “I think the most beautiful things have no idea,” he said, muffled, into his hair.

“You don’t knooow-oh-oh,” Eddie drunkenly hummed into his chest, “you don’t know who’s beautifuuul-ul-ul,” he sang somewhat off-key into Richie’s ribs. It was too adorable for Richie to even correct his lyrics. 

* * *

Richie could barely get his breathing under control. He didn’t even know where to start with the essay that was due the next day. He didn’t have an outline. He didn’t even have thoughts. He was just in a sinking ship, water rising over his head. And damn if that wasn’t entire education.

He really thought he should just cut his fucking losses. 

If he dropped out, then he won’t have failed. He’ll have quit. Two different things entirely.

And god knew everything he tried to be remotely good at, he ended fucking up eventually. Even something as simple as being with Eddie he had managed to completely ruin but thank God Eddie realized just how bad Richie was fucking him up. It was definitely for his betterment, the split between them two of them. Eddie was organized, driven, and bound to be successful. Richie was practically designed to destroy anything he even began to try and do. 

He went to sleep that night. He was too tired to even think straight, anything he tried to write would be shit at that point, anyway. Trying wasn’t even worth it. 

* * *

The door to the dorm opened, and Richie didn’t look up. He had his headphones over his ears, listening to music loudly. Stan’s face was staring at him, pinched and annoyed. Bill was also watching him, but more warily and with less concern.

Stan stormed up to him, and ripped his headphones off.

“Did you skip class _again_ , Ric-”  
  
“Hey, what the fuck, man?!” Richie almost yelled at Stan’s snarling face.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”  
  
“I’m worki- well, I- well, fuck Stan.” He moved his computer off his lap haughtily to reach for the headphones in his hand. “I don’t think it’s any of your goddamned business.”   
  
“HOW would you think this, any of this,” Stan waved around his hands, “is some sort of a solution? It’s not, dumbass.” 

“I don’t know what the hell you think you’re talking about.”

“G-guys…”  
  
“Why are you skipping class?!”  
  
“Why are you acting like my dad?!”

“You’re smarter than this, Rich-”  
  
“You don’t know how fucking smart I am-”

“This is just a waste of potential-”  
  
“All you really know about is the stick up your own ass-”  
  
“Oh, fuck you-”  
  
“I don’t have time for this-”  
  
“But you have time to sit in your bed and do nothing-”  
  
“Better than this-”  
  
“Oh fuck off, Richie, seriously-”

“Why don’t you?”  
  
“Fine!”  
  
“FINE.” 

And the door shut loudly behind Stan. Not a slam. Stan wouldn’t slam a door. 

“W-well.” Bill sat on his bed, face blank, “that was interesting. Wanna play Fortnite?” 

* * *

"You, Richie Tozier, were good things for me, too.”

Richie could only stare at him. He had come to know Eddie decently well. He had little quirks, little tells. He wasn’t really that difficult to read, and he wore his compassion, his openness and honesty, across his face as if it were written there. 

“ _And you, Eddie Kaspbrak_ ,” Richie thought, mouth, for once in his life, unmoving,  _ “are more naive than I thought.” _

* * *

_ Just friends. _

Richie could almost smirk to himself. He was a good just friends. He had many, multiple  _ just friends.  _ Several in their building. It was almost cute, watching Eddie flit around the topic as he was one to do. Hell, watching Eddie flit around almost anything was pretty fucking adorable. 

Richie, however, knew they were about as much friends as lions were housecats, but he figured his strongest move was just to bide his time with that. He couldn’t go all in on it right away, and spook the gazelle straight off of the prairie or whatever. He’d wait. He could do friends. He, actually, he thought highly, was a pretty decent friend sometimes.

He’d share weed and support people and like their selfies on Instagram.

He didn’t really think Eddie wanted any of those things in a friend.

And that’s what it ultimately came down to. Eddie, sitting cross-legged on his bed, laughing at some dumb youtube video that he and Bill watched years ago and Eddie, who had just emerged from his rock, had never heard of, was ever the enigma.

What the fuck did he want out of him- friend or otherwise?   
He didn’t think there was really a manual that came with being friends with Eddie Kaspbrak, the strange little gremlin, with an ass sculpted by the Gods themselves, he was. He didn’t really know what he wanted out of him.

Richie didn’t even know what he wanted out of Eddie anymore.

Except, maybe, just to be around him.

Because, okay, the kid was yell-y: he raised the sound decimal in a room just by standing in it, Richie was pretty sure. And hot-headed, and sometimes uptight and a little bit prudish. But Richie couldn’t tell himself he didn’t enjoy being around him. Because he did. Even if there was 0-dick sucking in the equation at all. Eddie would blink up at him every so often with big eyes and that handsome jawline and Richie would be content to have his ears assaulted every few minutes.

Eddie’s shoulder was warm against him, and he started talking about ‘this funny video where the ladies are talking about second, hold on, what was it, what’s the show with the sketches-” and Richie knew that he was talking about SNL’s Meet Your Second Wife sketch within seconds, but he was having too much fun, watching Eddie ramble on and fuss through the Youtube screens, that he just sat there and enjoyed it for a second. 

* * *

“Whatcha’ doin?” Bill leaned over his shoulder like he had any idea what any of the software in front of him meant.

“Mixing a thing for class.”  
  
“Build Me Up Buttercup?” Bill read over his shoulder. “What class calls for that song?” He asked, walking back to his bed and collapsing on top of it.

“Uh, every class should call for that song,” Richie countered, pulling his earphones off. He turned to stare at Bill. “It’s a fucking classic.” Richie was not actually making a mix for class. He had a feeling Bill knew that, but he didn’t know how he would. Instead, Richie was running for re-election of Dumbass of the Century, because god fucking dammnit, he liked Eddie. 

He felt like he was on the run from it for half a semester, every time it brushed his shoulders, something, sometimes even Eddie himself, would knock it back a couple of feet. But worst of all, when it caught him, it gnarled him up in some sick, twisting kind of joy, just being around him. Sitting there editing dumb mixes for him, narrowing songs down frame by frame even if he’d never notice if the edit was clean or not. He was happy to do it, because of that fucking piece of shit. It was all his fault. 

He liked Eddie enough that he was gonna wake up at ass-crack of the morning just so he could watch him twirl around to it. At least he was probably going to wear those wonderful black pants he was so fond of. He had already set the three alarms that were going to blare in the morning until Mike got up and smacked Richie awake. 

“Are you going with Stan to Bev’s?” Bill asked, lounging back on his bed. He had forgotten about all of that. He blithely thought about seeing what Eddie was doing if most of them were going to be out, but just friends rang out in the back of his head. 

“Uh, I’m gonna go, probably, but I’m taking my car.” He replied, scratching his jaw. “Are you?”   
  
“I can’t, I have to do this fucking thing for history, seriously, I’m so pissed, it’s fucking r-ridiculous to assign a group project-”   
Richie continued to nod along thoughtfully to Bill’s rant, but slipped the headphones over his ears. He continued to ‘hmm-’ and nod every few moments, even though he couldn’t hear Bill for shit anymore. His thumbs tapped rhythmically on the keys when he wasn’t clicking. He couldn’t wait for Eddie’s reaction. He really couldn’t. 

* * *

It was 7:03 a.m., Richie was barely awake in the studio. He stared at a wall, shutting his heavy eyelids slowly, and then reopening them. It was all he could think to do.

_ One day _ , he told himself,  _ one day someone’s gonna like me more than they like Bill. _

He blinked again, because if he let his eyes shut too long, the image of Bill and Eddie wrapped up in his sheets came blaring back. 

* * *

The worst part about wanting him, actually, wanting him. Wanting all of him. The annoying early morning rants and the aching nights and every moment in between, is that Eddie could ask him to do just about anything and he couldn’t say no. He realized that it had kind of always been that way, but really, going to the recital thing was quite literally a last straw. It was long and boring and a show he had seen over and over and over again in rehearsals, but Eddie asked him to come, so he was sitting in a velvet seat of their auditorium, where he fucking liked it or not.

And he tried so fucking hard not to care when Eddie shoved his parents in the opposite direction of Richie. He knew he was an embarrassing fuck. But the idea that they wouldn’t work because they were just from two different worlds stung, because Richie didn’t care that they were. He was fool-hardy, ready to make it work whatever it may be. And Eddie wasn’t, and that was gonna have to be okay eventually. 

If he were going to be from Eddie’s sort of world, he’d sit by himself in the studio and play something dark and brooding. Emotionally freeing. Some shit like that. But he had been tethered to the thing for the entire fucking semester and nothing made him feel less creatively strangled than the heavy wood of the grand piano. He’d set it on fire if he could. 

Instead, he did what actually made him feel better.

Looking at memes on twitter. 

Because they helped.  


* * *

“Of course they loved you, Richie.” The words rang out in his ears for the rest of the night. “Everyone loves you.”

“Everyone?”   
  
“I mean,” Eddie’s nose scrunched cutely, indignantly. “you’re Richie Tozier.” Richie knew that, thanks.   
  
He was Richie Tozier, boy who slept through two finals and didn’t finish a third. Richie Tozier who, to that day, had to physically drag himself out of bed to go to one class. One. He hated vegetables and not so much Mondays because he was more in favor of pretending they didn’t actually exist, and would rather sleep in than even pretend he’s going to do something outside.   
  
“You’re great.”   
  
“Okay.”   
  
“I won’t argue with you about this again.”   
  
“Fine.”   
  
“Fine.”   
  
He was Richie Tozier. Eddie proved, time and time again, just how well he knew that. He could be a pompous asshole. But somehow, to Eddie, being Richie Tozier could, in fact, be synonymous with great.  He laid in bed and he thought about it, after he and Eddie split paths for the night, after kiss after kiss after kiss. He’d lay in bed and think about the year, that it was ending that week. He’d think about all that happened, and realize, even with the friends and the hook-ups and even Eddie, that his self-esteem was still low. Lower than he thought it was. Because he replayed the moments in the studio that day on a loop, thinking about Eddie, with near disbelief. Because he wanted him. All of him, it seemed.

God knew why. 

* * *

“Just stay here,” Eddie whined, pouting on Richie’s empty dorm bed next to his duffle bag. He had just finished packing his very few belongings after Mike threw out half their stuff on a dorm-cleaning rampage. The windows were open, May breeze finally remotely pleasantly filling their dorm.

Richie huffed a laugh, “and sleep where?”  
  
“Under me.” 

Richie snorted. “Tempting. Legitimately tempting.” He slid in to sit next to him. His parents would be there to grab him in a half hour. Eddie fell into his chest, kissing at his collar bones gently. Richie squeezed his, now pretty impressive, bicep. 

The dorm was quiet, Mike and Bill already gone. Eddie already moved into his dorm for the summer, all of the summer stage students sharing one building. “It’s only three weeks.” Richie hummed, reminding them both, because he was dreading it, too. 

“...is it annoying if I say that three minutes already feels like three weeks?” 

“It is. It is definitely annoying.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Too bad I agree.”  
  
“We’re both just annoying assholes, aren’t we?”   
  
“Most definitely.”  
  
“I like it that way.”  
  
“...me too.” 


End file.
